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laxman2789 · 12-28-2004, 02:35 AM

CHAPTER THREE:

The Roommate

The flight from Philadelphia International Airport to Tulsa International Airport took about seven hours. When we touched down I searched, head on a swivel, for the beautiful girl the franchise sent to pick me up. I found an overweight, acne-riddled kid, around the same age as I, holding a sign that read my name. He pointed towards the baggage carousel then told me to get my bags and meet him in parking lot A13. So much for the red carpet welcome.

My driver’s name was Billy, the intern/office bitch for the Broken Arrow Angels. His beaten up 1996 Toyota Carola shone a dilapidated silverish-green and the words “Angels” ran across the side of the vehicle. The drive from Tulsa to Broken Arrow was only about 20 minutes, welcome news to me, a city-boy at heart. Billy dropped me off on Aspen Avenue, an exit off of Highway 51 in front of a Holiday Inn. “Your lodging,” announced Billy.

I lugged my bags out of the trunk to the hotel’s automatic doors, which of course did not open. I jumped up and down on the mat, trying to get the doors to open, but eventually gave up, and managed a balancing act of putting down one bag, opening the door manually, putting my foot in the door to prop it open, than picking up the bag and squeezing through the door sideways.

I went towards the front desk to check in but a hotel employee directed me to the lone meeting room. Guess I looked like a ballplayer. Inside the sorry excuse for a meeting room stood ten other young men, presumably teammates, and one middle aged recognizable face. Ramon Henriquez strolled over to me, hand outstretched, and bellowed, “Welcome to Broken Arrow! The smiling men around you are your fellow pitchers.”

Henriquez, an interesting story in his own right, serves Robert Long as the pitching coach for Double-A Broken Arrow. Despite not being a hall-of-fame caliber pitcher, Ramon stuck around for seventeen major league seasons, all for the San Antonio Silence. Henriquez, a lifetime 241-240 pitcher, has a career 5.15 ERA, yet ranks eighth all-time with 4487 strikeouts.

Everyone was conversing, at least everyone but the three other rookies. I walked over to one of the silent young arms and introduced myself. The kid I spoke with was David Rubalcaba, the closer we choose this season in the second round. Dave was only eighteen like me, and seemed to be an interesting character. The other rookies were Leo Plaza, a reliever selected in the tenth and final round and John Funston, the club’s first round pick.

We pitchers were put up in that Holiday Inn for our first two days in Broken Arrow before moving into our permanent residences. Each person was assigned a roommate, and I was paired with Dave Rubalcaba. The first couple minutes alone with Dave in our room were awkward, than I broke the ice. I opened my suitcase and pulled out my black, leather pouch, and emptied the contents onto the desk by the TV. “You smoke?” I asked him. I rolled probably the best blunt of my life, sealing the Dutch with honey and gave my new friend the ceremonious fist hit. From that point on we got along just fine. At the end of the two days everyone departed the hotel for our new domiciles. Veterans were allowed to live whichever way they pleased, but the rookies were inserted into houses currently occupied by families with an extra bed.

When I arrived at my new home a bubbly motherly type, dressed in a long, blue dress hugged me and introduced herself as my host mother. The house was the epitome of the American home. A white picket fence surrounded the lush, green yard leading up the front stoop, and shutters lined the windows of the quaint, white house, which I soon entered. A man sat, legs crossed, at the kitchen table sipping a cup of coffee. This gentleman is the only person I can truly call Dad. The two gracious souls who opened their house to me soon explained their situation. John, the man of the house, worked at the Blue Bell Ice Cream Plant on 81st Street just off Highway 51. Diane, the warm lady that met my cab, stayed at home except for Thursdays when she worked part time as a secretary at the local high school. The two had one child, named Taylor, around my age, whom I would be sharing a room with. God I hoped that he smoked.

12-28-2004, 02:35 AM	#8 (permalink)
laxman2789 Minors (Double A) Join Date: Jul 2003 Posts: 126	CHAPTER THREE: The Roommate The flight from Philadelphia International Airport to Tulsa International Airport took about seven hours. When we touched down I searched, head on a swivel, for the beautiful girl the franchise sent to pick me up. I found an overweight, acne-riddled kid, around the same age as I, holding a sign that read my name. He pointed towards the baggage carousel then told me to get my bags and meet him in parking lot A13. So much for the red carpet welcome. My driver’s name was Billy, the intern/office bitch for the Broken Arrow Angels. His beaten up 1996 Toyota Carola shone a dilapidated silverish-green and the words “Angels” ran across the side of the vehicle. The drive from Tulsa to Broken Arrow was only about 20 minutes, welcome news to me, a city-boy at heart. Billy dropped me off on Aspen Avenue, an exit off of Highway 51 in front of a Holiday Inn. “Your lodging,” announced Billy. I lugged my bags out of the trunk to the hotel’s automatic doors, which of course did not open. I jumped up and down on the mat, trying to get the doors to open, but eventually gave up, and managed a balancing act of putting down one bag, opening the door manually, putting my foot in the door to prop it open, than picking up the bag and squeezing through the door sideways. I went towards the front desk to check in but a hotel employee directed me to the lone meeting room. Guess I looked like a ballplayer. Inside the sorry excuse for a meeting room stood ten other young men, presumably teammates, and one middle aged recognizable face. Ramon Henriquez strolled over to me, hand outstretched, and bellowed, “Welcome to Broken Arrow! The smiling men around you are your fellow pitchers.” Henriquez, an interesting story in his own right, serves Robert Long as the pitching coach for Double-A Broken Arrow. Despite not being a hall-of-fame caliber pitcher, Ramon stuck around for seventeen major league seasons, all for the San Antonio Silence. Henriquez, a lifetime 241-240 pitcher, has a career 5.15 ERA, yet ranks eighth all-time with 4487 strikeouts. Everyone was conversing, at least everyone but the three other rookies. I walked over to one of the silent young arms and introduced myself. The kid I spoke with was David Rubalcaba, the closer we choose this season in the second round. Dave was only eighteen like me, and seemed to be an interesting character. The other rookies were Leo Plaza, a reliever selected in the tenth and final round and John Funston, the club’s first round pick. We pitchers were put up in that Holiday Inn for our first two days in Broken Arrow before moving into our permanent residences. Each person was assigned a roommate, and I was paired with Dave Rubalcaba. The first couple minutes alone with Dave in our room were awkward, than I broke the ice. I opened my suitcase and pulled out my black, leather pouch, and emptied the contents onto the desk by the TV. “You smoke?” I asked him. I rolled probably the best blunt of my life, sealing the Dutch with honey and gave my new friend the ceremonious fist hit. From that point on we got along just fine. At the end of the two days everyone departed the hotel for our new domiciles. Veterans were allowed to live whichever way they pleased, but the rookies were inserted into houses currently occupied by families with an extra bed. When I arrived at my new home a bubbly motherly type, dressed in a long, blue dress hugged me and introduced herself as my host mother. The house was the epitome of the American home. A white picket fence surrounded the lush, green yard leading up the front stoop, and shutters lined the windows of the quaint, white house, which I soon entered. A man sat, legs crossed, at the kitchen table sipping a cup of coffee. This gentleman is the only person I can truly call Dad. The two gracious souls who opened their house to me soon explained their situation. John, the man of the house, worked at the Blue Bell Ice Cream Plant on 81st Street just off Highway 51. Diane, the warm lady that met my cab, stayed at home except for Thursdays when she worked part time as a secretary at the local high school. The two had one child, named Taylor, around my age, whom I would be sharing a room with. God I hoped that he smoked.